The Huntress at Sunset
3. Rocks and Hard Places
From the distance the rock seemed a pure pinnacle of solid unforgiving stone, with little promise of cover or shelter. As he approached he skirted west round a great field of boulders, only then beginning to appreciate the true extent of the rock. It was not just a pinnacle but a formation stretching what must have been a hundred lengths north to south. The pinnacle towered over everything, far higher than Nengwalamwe could comprehend, only in the mountains had ever been so close to such a dramatically high face. This must be the rocky home of Yali's Pride.. Surely, he thought, there's got to be no end of caves and ledges up there. Any number of lions could hide in there and never be found.
He drew close to the south-western corner, where the rock rose sheer out of the savannah. There was no way to climb the claw-breaking rock. If Yali had got up onto the rocks, it was certainly not there. Yet there were no tracks, no scent: no sign of any kind that any lions had ever passed this way. There were no breaks in the grass, no pad prints: nothing.
The sun on his hindquarters reminded Nengwalamwe that night was not far away. There was no obvious place to lie up. His hunger was growing, but was not yet strong enough to push him to the effort of catching anything. Nengwalamwe decided to forget about hunting: it could wait for another day. This, the great rock of Yali's pride, was much more exciting. No, he thought as he sniffed around along the south side, that's far too many words: Yali's pride's rock. Or perhaps just Pride Rock… yes, that's it, Priderock.
Further on he thought he smelled the faintest echo of a lion's scent - not a cub's, but the much more obvious acrid scent of an adult male. It must have been left by the pride's last, and now lost male. That meant the lionesses were here, but where? He thought about calling to them, but if they really were hiding then the last thing they would want to hear would be a lion roaring the place down. There would be time enough for that when he was their male, and what a place this would be to roar from!
As the evening crept over the savannah, Nengwalamwe crept length by length round the great curve of the southern end of the rock, always searching for a way up; always searching for any sign of the lionesses he knew must lie above, silently watching him. He risked a few half-hearted chuffs but he gave up when he heard no reply other than the echoes from the hard bulk above him.
By full sunset he was growing weary of this game. The air began to chill noticeably, yet the rock held the heat of the day, warming him. It was almost as if it was reaching out and brushing its head against him. He felt no threat from the rock. He felt it was asking him to join it. This held his attention long enough for him to reach the far side of the rock, its long side. It was much more than a mere kopje, this was a complex series of rocks, caves, boulders and stones of every shape and size dominated by a long promontory that shot out, reaching for the clouds many lengths over the plain. Yet even that was dwarfed by the upward thrust of the tower, a seemingly unassailable mass of solid stone. The promontory looked as if it had fallen away from the tower, collapsing onto the plain below, strewing boulders three or more lengths long on all sides as easily as Nengwalamwe parted the grasses. The great rock tower made him feel small but welcomed. This then, he felt, was surely his great Priderock.
Amongst all the confusion of boulders he could just make out a route, twisting and rough, leading to the flat of the promontory. In seconds he leapt up the winding path, and inside of a minute stood on the flat in front of the tower. It felt almost like having arrived home. Nengwalamwe thought that this would be the perfect place to live. It was as perfect a home for a pride as he had ever imagined and, lionesses or no, it was all his.
Nengwalamwe spent most of the night searching along every path and in every cave of the rock, there was even one that drove right through the outcrop, opening onto a wide ledge invisible from the western savannah below. He had to jump down to enter its shadowy, draughty, echoing space.
Every where were loose rocks and boulders, some piled up, others lying alone. The accumulated earth in some of the rocks' hollows was sufficient to support small trees, even a miniature acacia: a perfectly foreshortened version of its savannah cousins.
He searched and scented every cave save one that promised to be the biggest and most exciting. It lay at the foot of the tower and probably extended far into its bulk. Nengwalamwe could find no way in, its entrance was blocked by a mass of sharp fallen rocks far heavier than Nengwalamwe could possibly hope to move. I'm gonna need an elephant to move that lot. He cast around. No, a whole herd of them! That other cave had an entrance you can't see, so maybe there's another way in. Perhaps they're in there… somewhere?
By the first light of morning he was certain he had searched the whole formation, except the great cave. He could guess its size from the echoes, and the cool air that oozed through the rocks, but there was only the faintest hint of lion's scent. Yet there it was, it was the only scent of any kind, apart from the lion's down at the base, that he caught all that night. He began to wonder if Yali had not been leading him on some kind of mad cow egret hunt; possibly to hide from him where her mother really lived. Nengwalamwe lay down on the promontory and set to thinking. In a few short minutes, just as the sun's flaming glow crept above the distant horizon, he fell asleep for the first time in half a day.
Nengwalamwe woke to aching hunger. He licked his off-foreleg and looked about. The rock appeared very different in the full light of day. He could now take it all in in one look. Yet it still appeared never-ending, much as the mountains had done. A sudden, very unfamiliar and unsettling thought struck Nengwalamwe: for a moment he thought about lying on the promontory watching his cubs play in the safety of the rock. I must be getting very hungry. What a nightmare! I had better find something to eat - fast. He was pulled away by the unmistakable sounds of the climax of a wild dog hunt drifting up from the plain to the east of the rock. There may not have been any lionesses to share a kill with but that was no reason not to find an easy meal. As his father said, "A good kill is one you don't make for yourself." Dogs presented no challenge. Many a time Nengwalamwe had been with his father when they had come across a dog kill. There were never more than six dogs. A quick roar and maybe a swipe or two of a forepaw and the meat was theirs. Hyenas could be more difficult, even to the point of being dangerous. They were far more persistent, they bit harder and their chatter was far more annoying, but dogs gave many lions easy pickings.
The dog's howls grew insistently louder. They must be quite close. Nengwalamwe got up and sniffed the air, but scented nothing. Even so, the young lion, with his now perfectly preened mane bouncing over his shoulders, loped down the rocks and set out over the savannah. The sounds of the dogs appeared to change direction, moving to his left, as he drew away from the rock. Now it was clear that they came from a kopje a little way off but clearly visible over the scattered bushes. He broke into a trot. Dogs are quick eaters, gulping down huge hunks of flesh before dashing off back to their den where they feed the pack mate and the pups. Nengwalamwe knew he had to hurry if he was not to end up with just bones. As he neared the kopje he slowed to a gentle walk and even stopped to check his paws were still clean. Right, now I've got to do it for myself. Pity you ain't here to see this. There again, if you've talked to Llasani then perhaps it's a good thing you aren't here. He shrugged, lifting his shoulders so that they rose well above his spine, even though, or indeed because, there was no one to see. Then he moved on towards the lowest slope of the nearest rock.
A few seconds later he stood motionless on the rounded top of the rock, and looked down onto five wild dogs, their deeply coloured patchwork coats mingling into one as they huddled intently around a partially devoured gazelle. They had not heard his approach.
He moved on, padding down the rock, careful to keep his claws tightly in, to avoid them clicking on the hard rock surface. It afforded him no grip other than what little his pads gained but he wanted to maintain surprise. He decided to risk jumping down the last length to the open savannah floor; still the dogs showed no sign of having heard him. Either they were deaf, or stupid. He closed to a couple of lengths and stood for a moment before rumbling quietly to announce his presence, just as his father had done. He was confident that the dogs would turn round, whimper pathetically and scatter, leaving him to their kill. His father's voice once more came to his mind, "The weak have only themselves to blame."
None of the dogs moved in response to his gentle call. Deaf AND stupid? I can get to like living here. He growled, loud enough for even deaf dogs to hear. One pricked up his ears and lifted his head from the kill. Nengwalamwe thought on, Yep, deaf and stupid. Oh, this is gonna be fun! The dog turned slowly to face him and stared at him incredulously.
"Bleedin'ell! 'Ere, Eddie, would you look at this!" The dog swiped at his neighbour's hindquarters with his forepaw. Eddie was clearly reluctant to stop gulping down the flesh of the gazelle's shoulder. "Eddie, get your snout out of it mate! This is really somefin'."
Nengwalamwe began to wonder if these dogs were quite the same as those he had encountered before. He had never seen a wild dog that knew so much as a single word of his language, let alone such an almost comprehensible dialect. The dog's closest companion, presumably Eddie, belatedly turned round to face the lion. His face was bloody from the kill. He licked his cheek noisily with his long tongue before speaking.
"Well lads, look what George has found. If it ain't a lion..."
"Nah mate, look at it. He ain't no norm'l lion. Hey you! Is that a mane or what?"
Nengwalamwe stood still. He felt rather put out.
"Yeah, he's a Dandy Lion! Did you ever see anythin' so dolled up as that?" George laughed; something Nengwalamwe had never known any other animal to do. "'Ere darlin' do yo'wanner see what a real male can do?" George thrust his hindquarters forwards and back repeatedly. Nengwalamwe stared back, at first confused then incensed. Inside, the pressure built up into a roar that should have put the dogs to instant flight. It had quite the opposite effect.
"Is that it pretty kitty? Oi! Charlie and Mary, get him out of here. He's getting on my wick." One of the other dogs stopped feeding, and stared ominously at Nengwalamwe. Then it jumped forwards with its ears flat and head down. Another, with a heavily spotted coat, immediately joined it. Nengwalamwe neither knew nor cared which of them was Mary or Charlie, both adopted the typical head down, ears forward posture of dogs on the hunt. Nengwalamwe stood his ground for a moment before realising with some alarm that he was their prey. He hastily backed away. George followed his two pack colleagues with his mouth hanging open and his tongue wagging in time to his panting breath. His ears were pricked and he held his head and tail high and alert.
The lead dog bared its teeth and let out a rasping 'Grrrrr'. Nengwalamwe watched its teeth shine in the sun. It was only at the last moment, from the corner of his eye, he saw George leap up, wide open mouthed, toward him. Nengwalamwe only just managed to tear his neck out from between George's jaws before they had had a chance to bite deep. Manes, he had now found, were not just for show, they also hid the outline of a lion's neck.
As Nengwalamwe drew away he turned and lashed at the dogs with his forepaw. He found no contact. As soon as he touched firm ground he pushed away and leapt forwards, fearing that the dogs would try to grab at his hindquarters and pull him back. The dogs seemed surprised that he was trying to run away and for a moment they faltered, unsure of what to do next.
"Gerr'outo'it! You ain't nothin'. Do'yer hear?" shouted George. "This is our turf!" George growled again before twisting to his paws, jumping up.
Nengwalamwe ran back up the kopje rock as fast as he could. As he reached the top he heard Eddie's gruff voice followed by a yelp of pain.
"Sod you! Shift it you lot. Go on! Get off yer arses and get after 'im!"
Nengwalamwe dare not stop running. As he ran he heard the clicking of the dogs' claws, scrambling after him. He had got away with barely a scratch, certainly not enough to put off any of the more friendly lionesses he hoped he would soon encounter. He wanted his coat to stay as unblemished, clean and unsullied by battle scars as his father's had been.
He ran on back to his rock without stopping, knowing that there, he could hide in one of the many caves for as long as it took for the dogs to give up. With wild dogs, that could well have meant the rest of the day. He ran fast, stretching the gap between him and the closest dog to twenty or more lengths before he reached the shadow of the rock. He expected them to follow him up the boulders, snapping at his heels: the inedible in pursuit of the impeccable. He half-expected to use all his strength in leaping up to one of its highest points to escape them, or worse, to turn and strike them down.
However as he reached the flat of the rock he risked a glance to the plain below, only to see the dogs sitting, gasping and panting for breath, well away from the base of the rock. They had not followed him up the boulder path; indeed they looked as if they were fearful of even approaching the great rock.
Nengwalamwe returned a little later; the three dogs were lying down, looking up at him with mournful eyes.
So it went on through the rest of the day; every time Nengwalamwe went to check, there they were: watching, waiting. He began to fear that he would be trapped up on the rock. He felt secure enough on the rock, he even tried to get some sleep, but he could not on such an empty stomach.
The morning turned into afternoon and in turn into evening. He looked around for something to occupy his mind and his claws. He went once more to the pile of rocks at the mouth of the great cave, wondering from where they had come. It was obvious that they were the same rock as the tower itself, hard and smooth, but he could work out very little else. Powerful thoughts grew in him of getting through them and into the cave beyond. If he had thought about it further he would have realised that it was impossible for a lion to move such heavy stones, yet he felt that he must try, and try, and try again.
As the sun fell, he heard distant calls of a wild dog pack, possibly his captors. He left the unyielding rocks for a while and slipped back to see if the dogs were still below. He was surprised to see that they had left, there was no sign of them; he was once more alone. Within minutes he was fast asleep in the open on the flat of the rock. It had been an unusual and exhausting day.